


I, Spy

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Series: Clandestine 'Verse [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M, heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He walks into the sniper’s line of sight. He waits for the shot. It never comes.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Take the shot. Take the shot, Agent.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I, Spy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [j1z1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j1z1/gifts).



> Because apparently when I say, 'I won't write a sequel,' what I really mean is, 'I could be talked into it.'
> 
> Oh goodness the warnings...
> 
> Warnings for: murder, character death, suicide, references to use of sex during spy-work, guns, injuries, traumatic experiences, hospitals, lies, references to past kidnapping, and I think that's it but I could be wrong.
> 
> Huh. Though Kurt has arguably the more horrifying past, there are less warnings for this piece. Probably because it's shorter.

When Kurt is sixteen, a woman with blond hair and a model’s face hands him a gun and tells him to kill his brother. His hands quake around the weapon as he levels it at Finn, and something in him turns to lead at the way Finn’s eyes widen.

“Kurt,” he says. “Kurt, come on, man, put the gun down. We can work this out, Kurt. Don’t do this, Kurt—”

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

The gun clatters out of Kurt’s hand. The blond woman is by his side instantly, pressing another weapon into his hand. “You killed him,” she says.

“No,” Kurt tells her.

 

(He doesn’t understand the words for what they are until much, much later. He doesn’t know whether he loves Quinn for what she did, or hates her.)

\--

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Three perfect bull’s-eyes without so much as looking at the targets. He can feel his new team’s eyes on him – Desdemona and Minerva, he remembers – and allows himself a small smirk. “What?” he says innocently. “Like it’s hard?”

Desdemona’s lips twitch. “I like you,” she says. “Britt, let’s keep him.”

Beside her, Minerva – Britt – nods.

 

(“Santana Lopez,” Desdemona introduces herself after their first mission together. “I figure if you’re going to be listening to me have sex with marks, you should at least know my name.”

“I’m Brittany,” Minerva pipes up.

Kurt shrugs. “Still Porcelain,” he tells them.

Santana shrugs. “Whatever works for you.”)

\--

He’s the one who finds Quinn … _after._ A part of Kurt thinks that this was how Quinn always intended it to end, that he was always meant to be the one to see her last, because he doesn’t think that she would have wanted anyone else to see her like this. Her eyes are wide and un-blinking, staring up at the ceiling, her arms spread outward with her wrists bared upwards.

She was praying, Kurt thinks. She was saying look at me, look at what I’ve done. Am I still your child now?

Kurt would suspect foul play if he didn’t know this had been building for a long time.

He pulls her dead body out of the bath, ignoring the way the red liquid splashes on his clothes and wraps her in a towel. There are many things that he has let SS take from him, but this will not be one of them.

 

(He buries her deep in the woods, because it is what she would have wanted. He says a prayer he doesn’t believe over her make-shift grave, and the next morning, he runs.)

\--

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Santana is standing in front of him, her gun still angled at the ground where she fired the shots, but the usual hard quality she has to her gaze is missing. “You died here today,” she tells him. “You understand, Porcelain? You died here and you can _never_ come back.”

“Kurt,” he says softly. “My name is Kurt.”

Something akin to a smile flitters across Santana’s face. “Whatever works for you.”

 

(Those aren’t the last words Santana says to Kurt. The last words come later, when she’s in an interrogation room after having been taken in by DALTON, and Kurt walks in.

“I should have known, Porcelain,” she says, and then she laughs, and laughs, and laughs.)

\--

He sees the sniper before the sniper sees him. CIA, he suspects, but it could be an especially persistent MI5 agent; they’ve been somewhat more pissed off with him than everyone else after the debacle in Leeds last year.

He’s been running from SS – no, he hastily corrects in his mind, _Triple S_ – for just under two months now, and he’s … tired. He wants it to be over, just wants to be at the end of this part of his life already. If that end is a bullet in his skull, then he’ll take it.

He walks into the sniper’s line of sight. He waits for the shot. It never comes.

“Take the shot.”

Nothing.

“Take the shot, Agent.”

 

(And that’s the beginning, really.)

\--

The interrogation room that DALTON shoves him into is soulless, a prison of grey on grey. It’s the last place he expects to see Rachel, but she strides in, high heels clacking ominously on the floor.

After he’s seen her, though, he more than expects the hit.

 

(“I killed her fiancé,” he explains to his interrogator, as detached as he can manage. “My brother,” he clarifies and pretends not to see the sneer of disgust on their face.)

\--

Blaine Anderson, he quickly learns, is the name of the man who gave him a second chance. He sees Agent Anderson sometimes, down at the shooting range, and he takes great pleasure in showing him up in every way possible. Kurt never misses. He’s been drunk off his face, and drugged to the teeth, and he has still made the shot – he’s that good.

So, maybe he plays a bit with Agent Anderson. A couple of smiley faces, one pointed cross across the target sheet, and a perfectly executed ‘A’.

It’s not the best method that Kurt has ever used to try and make friends, but he’s kind of getting desperate. He knows that he was never going to be Mr Popularity with DALTON operatives, but the cold shoulder is almost driving him insane.

It works, though, because Anderson comes and sits with him at lunch next time they’re in the cafeteria together.

 

(“So, I heard that you have a near perfect mission record, Superstar,” he says. “Any tips?”

“Yeah,” Anderson says. “Don’t die.”

“Sound advice,” Kurt agrees.)

\--

“Agent Hummel,” Director Pillsbury greets him. “Take a seat.”

Kurt has heard stories about this woman and the more he looks at her, the more he believes every last one of them. “Do you often brief your agents personally, Ma’am?” he asks.

“Not if I can help it,” she replies, and then places a file in front of him. “Open it, Agent.”

Kurt opens the file and starts to read. He gets as far as, _Agents Zizes and Chang safely escorted Burt Hummel_ , before he stops reading and closes it again.

“Director?” he asks, as his mind immediately jumps to the worst. They’re using his dad, his dad who doesn’t even know he’s still alive, oh _God._

“Agent Hummel, your father and his wife are safe,” she says. “They will remain that way.” Something hardens in her expression. “We take care of our own, Agent Hummel.”

It’s a threat and a promise all in one.

 

(When he gets captured, two years later, Kurt expects them to leave him for dead. They don’t. He wakes up in DALTON Medical, Director Pillsbury by his bedside. “We take care of our own,” she says, and leaves.)

\--

He doesn’t mean to tell Rachel the truth about Finn, but he’s tired and this whole thing was exactly like fucking Caracas all over again, and _Blaine_ could have died out there on the field. If Kurt’s fingers were just a fraction of a second slower, if he’d pulled the trigger so much as a moment later, Blaine would be—

So, the words come out.

Because he’s tired and worn out, and he’s sick of Rachel looking at him like he’s the scum of the earth. He is, but not for this. Never for this.

“I didn’t kill Finn,” he says, and instantly regrets it.

He watches Rachel coil up, and then freeze. “Who did then?” She probably doesn’t mean for it to come out so sharp and disbelieving, so Kurt suppresses the urge to flinch.

“Aphrodite,” Kurt says. He thinks of burying her, and how none of this can hurt her anymore. “Quinn Fabray if you want her real name.”

Rachel regards him closely. She doesn’t know what to do with this information, Kurt realises, and he can’t blame her for walking away.

It’s only then that Kurt realises that Blaine’s breaths aren’t even enough for him to be asleep. He wants to sigh, but there’s security in this, in knowing that Blaine knows the truth, and he doesn’t have to say it again.

“Go to sleep, Blaine.”

 

(It’s the first time that Kurt’s ever said Blaine’s first name. Blaine sleeps.)

\--

The next time he’s called in to be briefed on a mission, Rachel’s in the room with him. She nods at him once, then turns to focus on the briefing.

For the next three months, they take the same ops. It’s not quite forgiveness, but they’re getting there.

 

(“Oh my God, Rachel,” Kurt cries. “What is it with you and explosives?”

“They call me Cherry Bomb around base for a reason, Kurt,” Rachel tells him, and it’s then, at that moment, that Kurt knows that everything’s okay.)

\--

So this is how it goes for Kurt: he kills and he steals and he lies, but at the end of the day, when he drags himself back to DALTON HQ after missions, he looks out at what he’s left behind and he thinks, _this is better._ His hands are already stained red with blood and black with lies, and there’s no changing that, but there is something freeing in taking his blood-stained hands and using them to change the worst of what he has done.

He and Rachel are taken everywhere, save cities and people, return alive once, twice, and then lose count. Sometimes they lose the battle, but they’re winning the war.

Sometimes, he works with Blaine. Sometimes, he finds himself smiling behind his rifle scope, and he has to stop and wipe the expression off his face, but this is _Blaine_.

He trusts Director Pillsbury with his family. He trusts Rachel with his life. It’s Blaine who Kurt trusts with himself.

And that’s something, isn’t it?

 

(It’s something.)

\--

DALTON is compromised, and then it’s not. Rachel is dating Agent St. James, and then she’s not. Kurt’s hands are shaking around his rifle’s grip, and then they’re not.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Three shots, straight in the heart. Just as Quinn taught him. No room for error or mercy. Triple S, it seems, never really leaves you.

_Take the shot. Take the shot, Agent._

So here he is, he thinks afterwards. Full circle. What does he do now? What is he supposed to do now? He needs to think, needs to plan, needs to—

Kurt is desperate to be alone, and then he’s not.

Blaine finds him that night, and he speaks in hushed tones about his childhood kidnapping. He was sixteen, and he jumped out of a speeding vehicle to get away. He had one good leg and he still dragged himself to safety, to a phone, and he called the cops. He was sixteen and he made the choice of bravery, but that’s the thing about Blaine. Blaine won’t ever think of it like that. He won’t ever think that he had a choice in that van, but Kurt knows that he did.

Kurt faced the same choice when he was sixteen and he chose the coward’s option. He went with his kidnappers, and was welcomed with open arms.

Kurt doesn’t want to think about that, though. He doesn’t want to remember the bad parts, as selfish as that may be. He doesn’t want to think about his first lipstick mission, or his first real kill, or _Quinn_. So he remembers Santana and Brittany, and their unwavering loyalty. He remembers Santana firing three shots into the ground. He remembers telling her his name. He remembers the last time he saw Brittany smile, how she picked up a stray cat on one of their missions and took it home with her. He remembers the good bits, the tiny patches of brightness in amongst all the blood and the lies and the self-hatred.

He tells some of them to Blaine.

 

(Blaine doesn’t judge. Blaine stays. Kurt doesn’t really know what to do with that.)

\--

Kurt turns twenty-six in a businessman’s pool, floating, barely aware as he loses more and more blood. He doesn’t know how long it takes for someone to fish him out, but it can’t be very long, or he’d be dead.

“Jesus,” he hears someone say. “Jesus Christ, I am not paid enough for this.”

Then there’s pressure on the wound, and Kurt manages to open his eyes long enough for the blurry visage of his rescuer to cross his vision. He has black hair, but that’s pretty much all Kurt can tell.

“Stay with me,” the person says again. “Stay with me, okay? I’m calling an ambulance for you, okay? You’ll be fine.”

Kurt tries to say, “Sure,” but he loses consciousness before he can get the words out.

 

(He wakes up in the ambulance, eyes open for barely a second before he’s slipping under again, and he can hear someone rattling off his medical condition. Huh, he thinks. That sounds pretty bad.)

\--

Kurt wakes up in a pristine hospital room with a handsome man at the foot of his bed, pouring over a thick textbook. He blinks, waiting for the punchline. This isn’t DALTON Medical. The last thing he remembers is being pushed—

Okay, it seems like someone found him in the pool. All evidence is pointing towards it having been Heavy Textbook over in the corner.

Kurt clears his throat, causing the other occupant of the room to startle and drop his book on his foot. “Ow, fuck, ow,” Heavy Textbook releases, face screwed up in pain. Kurt waits for him to finish.

“Where am I?” he asks.

“Hospital?” the guy says, rubbing his foot. “Portland Memorial to be precise. Um, I don’t want to seem callous, but you do have health insurance, right? Because you didn’t have any ID on you, or anything, which was kind of weird – you’re not an illegal immigrant, are you?”

“The suit you cut me out of was Vivien Westwood,” Kurt tells the guy. “Take a guess.”

“Okay, you’re catty,” the guy comments. “I’m Elliott.”

“Kurt,” Kurt replies. “Two questions: can I borrow a phone, and how do you feel about NDAs?”

Elliott stares a bit. “Phone, yes,” he says. “As a law student, NDA, maybe.”

Kurt gratefully accepts the phone. “As a law student, think less NDA, more Espionage Act of 1917,” he says, then dials Rachel’s number.

 

(Elliott gapes.)

\--

Kurt turns twenty-seven in the middle of a late night debrief back at DALTON HQ. He’s part way through explaining his choice to ditch their asset when a knock comes at the door. He freezes, hands still raised mid-gesture, and then looks to Deputy Director Beiste in question.

She gets up, crosses the room, and opens the door. Calmly, she crouches down and picks something up off the floor outside the room and brings it in.

It’s a birthday cake. Kurt can read the writing on it – _Happy Birthday 0027!_ – from where he’s sat. Deputy Director Beiste places it in front of Kurt, and Kurt’s not stupid enough to do anything other than smile and blow the candles out.

“Right,” Deputy Director Beiste says. “Now that that’s sorted – you were saying, Agent?”

 

(Kurt’s pretty willing to bet that the cake debacle was planned by Rachel and carried out by Blaine. He can’t really prove anything, though, at least, not until Wes passes him in the corridor and smirks. “Like the cake, Agent?” he asks.

“Deputy Director Beiste did,” Kurt tells him, and can’t suppress a smile at the way Wes’s face pales considerably.)

\--

Blaine turns twenty-seven and Kurt decides that he’s done punishing himself. He walks up to the other agent and presses their lips together, utterly no-nonsense. As he moves away after kissing him, though, Blaine catches Kurt and pulls him in closer. Then Blaine crushes their mouths onto one another, cupping Kurt’s face, a solid constant.

Kurt has to break it to breathe. He looks at Blaine. “Guess this means no more lipstick missions,” he says. _This is something, Blaine._

“Yeah,” Blaine exhales, and the he leans back in.

Another kiss.

Another.

Another.

 

(Three shots, straight in the heart.)

\--

It’s both weird and useful to have their anniversary on the same day as Blaine’s birthday. Neither of them were ever in any danger of forgetting it, but it means that they can combine celebrations and splurge on something really nice.

They’re lying blissed out on a hotel bed when Kurt gets the call.

His father’s had a heart attack. DALTON are arranging transport for him. The prognosis isn’t good.

“Do you want to go?” Blaine asks Kurt.

Kurt takes a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“Do you want me to come?”

Kurt nods. “Yes,” he says.

“Okay,” Blaine says. “Then let’s go.”

 

(In the car to the hospital, Blaine’s hand somehow ends up in Kurt’s hair and it stays there. “Go to sleep, Kurt,” he says.

Kurt sleeps.)

\--

 _I watched Finn die,_ Kurt could say.

 _I kill people for a living_ , Kurt could say.

 _There is more blood on your hands than pumping through your veins_ , Kurt could say.

This is what he says instead: “Hi, Dad.”

Burt’s eyes widen, then collapse, then open again. “Kurt?” he croaks. “Am I dreaming?”

Kurt shakes his head, sinking into a chair by his father’s side. “No, Dad,” he says. “You’re not dreaming.”

Burt’s eyes focus behind Kurt, on Blaine, who is hovering awkwardly behind Kurt, dressed in a suit and tie, the bulge of his gun very visible beneath the jacket. “You got a security detail, Kiddo?” Burt asks, tone unreadable.

Kurt gives Blaine a look that reads, ‘You brought your weapon? _Seriously_?’ and shakes his head to his dad. “Dad,” he says. “This is my boyfriend, Blaine Anderson. Blaine, this is my father, Burt Hummel.”

Burt looks between the two of them. “Huh,” he says. “Your mother was right.”

 

(It’s not that easy. God forbid that any of this could possibly be easy. There are conversations to come that Kurt will want to scrub from his brain, difficult confessions, and then the words that kill him.

“Kurt,” Burt says. “I love you.”

And then—

“And I’m proud of you too.”)

\--

Puck hands Kurt a steaming mug of coffee with a smile. “How have you been?” he asks, and it almost throws Kurt that Puck seems to honestly want to know.

Noah ‘Puck’ Puckerman is the kind of guy who would have probably picked on Kurt in high school. There are remnants of a devil-may-care personality in his habits, but Puck is nominally a mature adult and a brilliant father. He reacted with resigned calm to the news that Quinn was gone, and told him that at least he wouldn’t have to lie about why Mommy was never home anymore to Beth.

Kurt hasn’t been here in years.

When Quinn was still alive, Triple S would never have hurt Puck and Beth, not when they made such fantastic leverage against her. After Quinn died … Kurt wasn’t about to take any chances.

He got them some place safe, practically forced them into the hands of WITSEC, and used up every last shred of blackmail he had to keep them there, to keep them hidden. The danger is mostly over now, though. Triple S is in tatters, and it’s only a matter of time before the operative they’re hauling in is Sue Sylvester herself.

“I’ve been good, actually,” Kurt tells Puck. He takes a long sip of coffee. “Saw my father again a few weeks back, and I’ve been in a stable relationship for over a year now. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know?”

“The shoe’s already dropped, Kurt,” Puck replies. “It was a stiletto named Triple S.”

Sometimes, Kurt forgets just how badly Triple S has messed up Puck’s life as well. It’s easy to forget the fact that Puck missed his own mother’s funeral to keep his daughter safe, and that he fell in love with a woman named Lucy, only to find out that she had been a spy named Quinn all along.

So, you know what? Fair enough.

Kurt changes the subject. “How’s Beth?”

Something tired flies across Puck’s face. “Sometimes she’s so much like her mother, Kurt,” he says quietly. “The same energy, the same smile… I’ve spent years trying to reconcile Lucy Harrington with Quinn Fabray and again with Aphrodite, and then there’s Beth and she just blows it all away in seconds. I just guess they really were all the same person after all.” He shakes his head like he’s clearing it. “I miss her.”

“Me too,” Kurt says without hesitation.

“She would have been proud of you, you know?”

“I hope so,” Kurt says, but he knows that it’s true.

 

(He gives Puck another cheque for Beth’s college fund before he leaves. Puck tries to refuse it, but Kurt is insistent.

“You know what I do for a living, Puck,” he says. “Either way, that money’s going to end up in that bank account. Trust me when I say that you’ll be saving everyone a lot of time and effort by accepting it.”)

\--

“You’re taking me home to meet your family?” Kurt asks, because he doesn’t think there’s any possible way he could hallucinate this. He is on some pretty strong drugs, though, so there is a margin of uncertainty in that assumption.

Blaine shrugs, his fingers warm in Kurt’s hand. “Now that I’m not on active duty anymore, I was going to try and visit my parents more often,” he says.

That’s something new, there. Blaine retired from active duty just under two months ago, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine. He now has a job in the administrative side of DALTON, serving as a liaison to NSA, and as far as Kurt can tell, he’s doing pretty well. The caged nerds over at the Agency seem like him, anyway, and Blaine says that it’s more than worth the pay-cut not to have to worry about being shot at any second.

Kurt would have to concur; it’s one less thing for him to have to worry about on an op.

“You’re asking me this now because there’s a higher chance I’ll agree to it while on the pain meds, aren’t you?” Kurt asks shrewdly.

“Pretty much,” Blaine confesses. “But, hey – your fault for getting a concussion.”

“I was _pushed off a building_ , Blaine,” Kurt tells him tiredly. “Forget lucky; it was downright miraculous I walked away with only a concussion.”

“Didn’t you get pushed off a building that time in Portland? Is this becoming a habit?”

“Out of a window,” Kurt corrects absent-mindedly.

“Ah, yes, I remember you laughing because DALTON actually has a form for defenestration,” Blaine grins. “So, what do you say? Ready to meet the other Anderson’s?”

“I’m going to regret saying yes, aren’t I?”

“Probably.”

 

(Mr and Mrs Anderson are nothing like their two sons. It remains to be seen if this is a good thing.)

\--

“That was hilarious,” Kurt tells him as soon as they reach the guest bedroom and ditch their bags.

They’d arrived at Chateau Anderson – and if you think that Kurt is joking about the _chateau_ part, he’s not – to discover that Cooper had conned Rachel into the position of _fake girlfriend_ for the duration of Thanksgiving. When she’d introduced herself, it had taken every ounce of Kurt’s acting skills _not_ to burst out laughing.

“Fifty bucks says that they rom-com it out and are dating for real by the end of the holiday,” Blaine replies as he starts to unpack their suitcases.

“Are you kidding me?” Kurt asks. “That’s a fool’s bet. They’ll be dating by the end of the day the way they’re going.”

Blaine grins and leans in towards Kurt. “I love you,” he says easily, but the words make Kurt feel like he’s been stripped bare.

“I love you too,” Kurt says back, and it might be a threat, or it might be a promise.

 

(Cooper comes down for breakfast the next day looking decidedly ill-rested and ruffled. He takes one look at the knowing smiles on Kurt and Blaine’s face and tells them to shut up.

“I said nothing,” Blaine replies.

“Yeah, and I happen to control your pay,” Cooper says back.)

\--

Kurt doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. It’s probably the one time in his entire career that he doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he overhears it anyway. Cooper and Blaine were dragged off to the kitchen by their mother a while back, and Kurt has been sent after them by Rachel for a status update.

“—think I’m stupid? _No_ security consultants are out of the country as much as you two.”

This is not something that Kurt should be listening to.

“I’m not asking for the truth, because Lord knows that I will be both happier and safer without it, but please, for the love of God, stop with the lies.”

Quiet, then, “Does Dad know?”

“Do you think I would be in here alone if he did? Look – I’m not going to tell you how to live your lives. You’re old enough to make those decisions yourselves. But, Blaine … this isn’t because of the kidnapping, is it?”

“Not everything’s about the kidnapping, Mom.”

“But this was?”

“No, this _job_ happened because I’m good at what I do.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I like Kurt. And Rachel seems like a lovely girl.” Another beat. “Oh, no, wipe those looks off your faces; I do notwant to know _any_ more than that.”

Kurt smiles to himself and moves away.

 

(Blaine comes out of the kitchen looking like he’s had his ground knocked out from under his feet. He falls into Kurt’s arms effortlessly, and Kurt holds him there.)

\--

They bring in Sue Sylvester three weeks later. After two days of her impassive face and snarling replies, they send Kurt into the interrogation room. It’s mostly to try and get a reaction out of her, but Kurt takes great pleasure in the way that her face twists when she sees him.

“Hello, Coach,” he greets smoothly. “How have you been?”

“I should have put that bullet in you myself,” Sylvester replies harshly. “Sandbags always was one for hidden sentimentality.”

“Others have tried,” Kurt tells her mildly.

“Do these people know?” Sylvester asks. “Do your new friends know how you killed your own brother, Porcelain? Do they know how you came to me, covered in his blood and kissed my hand, begging for a job? Do they know how you used to laugh, Porcelain? Do they?”

Kurt quirks an eyebrow at her. “Firstly, it’s Agent Hummel, now, I’m afraid,” he says calmly. “Secondly, I can assure you that DALTON are very thorough in their interrogations.” He stands, and turns to leave. “Lastly, Ms Sylvester, I never killed Finn.”

Then he leaves.

It feels an awful lot like closure.

 

(Occam’s Razor would say that it is. Kurt’s never been one to trust the information that comes easily, though.)

\--

It hits him, late at night at DALTON HQ, when Kurt is firing round after round into human-shaped targets. He’s thirty years old, in a relationship with the man he loves, and he doesn’t have to do this anymore. He can walk away any day now.

It’s neither bad nor good – it just is.

“Hey, Kurt,” Rachel says, approaching from behind him. “We have an assignment. Debrief in five. You in?”

Kurt moves away from his gun, and meets Rachel’s eye. “Yeah,” he says.

 

(It’s not quite a happily ever after, but _whatever_. They’re spies. This is as good as it’s going to get.)


End file.
